Something had changed. The sheriff could feel it. He had been in the Mission Street Woods since early that afternoon. He had walked the crime scene for the hundredth time when out of nowhere, it felt like the woods woke up around him. Rodents who had been hiding in holes suddenly made digging sounds. The birds flew off the branches as if someone had shot a gun that only they could hear. The temperature instantly dropped to below freezing. It felt like someone had left a window open and a draft was running through the world.
If David Olson was buried alive, then who buried him?
Because it wasn’t the trees.
The sheriff shook off the uneasy feeling and went back to his work. He walked up and down the footpath, looking for clues. Of course, the case was fifty years old, so he knew he wouldn’t find a fresh scene. No sign of abduction. No hole in the ground. No trapdoor. But maybe he would find something else. An idea. An insight. Some reasonable explanation that would allow the sheriff to put David Olson to rest in his own mind the way that Ambrose had put him to rest that morning.
But nothing came.
Except that uneasy feeling.
The sheriff passed the tree where David’s body was found. He looked at the torn earth and remembered standing next to Ambrose and Kate Reese at David’s funeral. It was only that morning, and yet it felt like it happened two years ago. Father Tom gave a beautiful eulogy. Ambrose insisted on carrying his little brother’s casket. The sheriff had to give the old man credit. He couldn’t think of a lot of men who could have been a pallbearer on two arthritic knees.
When they reached the cemetery, they walked the casket over to the grave. As Father Tom spoke, the sheriff looked out over the cemetery. He could barely hear the words “love” and “forgiveness” and “peace.” He could only think about the thousands of headstones with generations of families lying side by side. Husbands. Wives. Mothers. Fathers. Daughters. Sons. The sheriff thought about all those families. All those Christmas dinners and presents and memories. And then, he had the strangest thought.
God is a murderer.
The sheriff had no idea where it came from. There was no menace to it. No malice. Nothing sacrilegious. It was just a thought that drifted there quietly like the clouds that had gathered above the cemetery. One cloud was shaped like a hand. Another like a hammer. And one looked like a man with a long beard.
God is a murderer.
The sheriff had arrested murderers before. Some begged that they were innocent or cursed him or screamed that it was all a misunderstanding. Some just sat there, still as statues, calm and sometimes covered in their victim’s blood. They were the truly frightening ones. Except of course the worst of them. The one woman who killed her own daughter. The girl with the painted nails. Not with a knife or a gun. But with neglect.
If God were arrested for murder, what would the people do with Him?
The sheriff looked out over the graves and thought about the girl with the painted nails. Hers was the last funeral he had attended before David Olson’s. The sheriff was the only person at the girl’s funeral other than the priest. The sheriff couldn’t bear to have the girl laid to rest in the plain pine casket that the city provided. So, he cashed out some of his savings and bought her the best he could afford on an honest cop’s salary. When the funeral was over, he drove home and sat in his apartment. He wanted to pick up the phone and call his mother, but she had passed years ago. He wanted to take his father out for a drink, but his father was gone, too, along with his aunt, who died right after his high school graduation. The sheriff was an only child. He was the only one in his family left alive.
God had taken the rest.
If God were arrested for murder, would people ask for the death penalty?
The sheriff left Ambrose and Kate after the funeral and drove straight to the Mission Street Woods. The answer to David was in here. He was sure of it. He parked his cruiser and walked past the bulldozers of the Collins Construction Company. The judge (aka Mr. Collins’ golfing buddy of the last thirty years) had given the Collins Construction Company “temporary” permission to begin working again so long as they didn’t disturb the crime scene. The “temporary” permission lasted just long enough to put the Collins team back on schedule. Lucky them. The security guard told the sheriff that since the blizzard ended, they had cleared off a huge section of trees. Most of the trees would be gone by Christmas.
If David Olson was buried alive, then who buried him?
Because it wasn’t the trees.
The security guard explained that all of the bulldozing had torn up a lot of fresh earth. And the crew kept finding strange things buried out there. They found an old hacksaw, the kind the Amish still used. They found old hammers and rusty nails. A bunch of broken shovels, one of them with the shaft burnt. Tools going back to the 17th century when England gave the entire state of Pennsylvania to William Penn to settle a debt.
At least a hundred years before men ever thought to mine coal.
The sheriff looked at the collection of old tools. Saws, hammers, and shovels. And that’s when he started to have an idea. He could feel it. An itch forming in his mind. As good as a back scratch.
What were these tools for?
The sheriff moved the questions around his brain. There was an answer here.
Were the tools for building?
The sheriff walked down the narrow path.
Or were the tools for burying?
The sheriff reached the clearing.
Or were the tools for murdering?
The clearing was still. Almost as if the woods were holding its breath. The sheriff looked up. And there it was. The tree house. Resting on the old tree.
If David Olson was buried alive, then who buried him?
Because it wasn’t the trees.
The sheriff approached the tree. He looked up. The sunlight poured through the clouds above, making the frost on the branches glow with golden light. Instantly the thought came to him. As clear as the sun.
If God were arrested for murder, the people would ask for the death penalty.
The sheriff stared up at the tree house. The wind moved through his hair like a whisper.
But the people could never kill God, so they killed His Son Jesus instead.
Some deer started to walk toward the sheriff.
Did Jesus die for our sins?
Or did He die for His Father’s?
He held this thought like a smoker cradling his last match.
The people didn’t put Jesus to death as a martyr.
They put Him to death as an accomplice.
He could feel the answer on the tip of his tongue.
Jesus forgave us for killing Him.
His Father never did.
The sheriff stopped. He knew that in one second, he would see how it was all connected. David Olson. The old tools. The Mission Street Woods. The clearing. The clouds. All wrapped together like the tree roots around David Olson’s skeleton. One more second and he would know how David Olson really died.
And that’s when he heard the sound of a baby crying.
Coming from inside the tree house.